Free the Freak
by BentThornes
Summary: Harry, or as he answers to: the Freak, It, Boy, and many other ugly monikers, has not had an easy life. Living with the Dursley's has had a profound impact on his mental state, and it is THIS battle that will prove the most important thing that he will really have to face. Warnings for severe abuse, physical, sexual, emotional. Self Harm. And other possibilities later.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Harry Potter, obviously, otherwise I probably would not be writing FANfiction. Though I suppose you can be your own greatest fan... but yeah, not the case right here.

This story features HEAVY abuse, some that is sexual. It also features a very emotionally, well, insecure, Harry Potter. He will be going off to Hogwarts, so the gory chapters should break away fairly soon, but if that-or self harm, triggers you or makes you uncomfortable- Do not read. Please, do yourself a favor and skip over this.

This is my first story, so yeah...

"FREAK!"

A roar thundered through the hall, catching a young, scrawny, and scraggly boy, entirely by surprise. His hair was matted with filth, the only thing dirtier on him were the threadbare and torn clothes that he was currently swimming in. With speed that one would not imaging possible for one so young and frail looking, the boy rushed off towards the sound.

But he knew better than to speak. Even though he had been addressed directly, he knew that it did not matter- if he spoke, he would be reminded of what he already knew deep down, that he was worthless.

Trembling, the boy looked down at his socked feet. Dudley's socks. He knew that Dudley had made sure to rip as many holes in them as possible before he had given them to the less fortunate-but ever so grateful for them- boy. Really, he was very thankful to have gotten those socks. His aunt Petunia always chased him away with her broom when she saw him defiling her house with his sweaty bare freakish feet, and the one time when he had decided it might be a good idea to wear his trainers... well he still bore those marks that constantly reminded him of his carelessness.

So he had been so grateful to have finally recieved the socks. He had of course, had to do some special punishments to earn them, but it had been so worth it, getting to take a small step away from the edge of his fear. Now, the first thought that ran through his head was, 'please. I want my socks. Let me please keep my socks.'

He needed to feel like something was important at times like this, otherwise he knew...he might just melt away. He didn't like it when that happened.

"So, it decided to finally arrive, did it" The man before him huffed menacingly, "It knows that It is not to keep me waiting. Well, I suppose I will just have to add this to Its tally. It is not having a good day is it?".

Here, all that coud be heard was the sounds of silence, and of the mans heavy breathing- for the boy, he said nothing.

"Oh, and even after It is warned of Its impertanence, the stupid thing continues to disobey me. Does it know what It has done? It had better, for if it has to guess... well then It's secrets will be out! Won't they? It had better guess correctly." It was at this point that the man roughly seized the boys chin, yanking his head upwards to meet his dangerous gaze.

The boy gulped. He knew he was done for. He did not know! He had no idea! He never had any idea. If he guessed, if he guessed incorrectly, he knew it would be bad. If he stayed silent... he knew it would be worse. The boy knew he had only one option, one terrifying option, he had to confess his ignorance.

"Sir, Freak sorry sir. Freak not know. Freak fail 'gain. Bad, Freak, Bad!" The boy stuttered this out in a childish panic, words falling atop one another in his effort to express his remorse for whatever awful thing he was sure that he had done. "Freak get cane? Freak go get toolbox? Freak sorry. Freak so sorry. Freak so bad. Freak deserve pain, much pain. Hard pain, so Freak hurted as much as he hurted good Sir." With this, the boy started clawing frantically at his arms, drawing small droplets of blood which were hardly noticeable under all of the still open wounds, bruises, and scars new and old, covering every spot big enough to bear a freckle.

"Oh Freak, always one to learn just a bit too late. Well, I am afriad that this time it is going to have to be 'a trip'. If only you could just be good."

With this, the man grabbed the boy by his overly grown hair, carried him forwards, and then threw him down the staircase in front of him.

When he heard the wail sound below him, the man allowed himself the briefest grin, and then followed to meet and regreet his victim.


	2. Chapter 2

"I see that the lesson still has not been learned! It knows that It is supposed to be standing at attention when I arrive. I will not have this, will not have this disrespect. Oh well, I suppose it just shall have to be added on to It's punishment." The man looked down at the boy, barely conscious after falling down a flight of hard stairs, with a vile grin on his face. "Better get into position now, before Master gets even angrier"

The boy stumbled to his feet, internally chastizing himself for his behavior-'Oh, It had sure done it now! Why could It never be good? Why was it so stupid?' The boy stood squarly in front of the man, waiting for the command he surely knew was coming.

"Strip"

And the boy did. He always did this. He did not really even mind it, for he really did not want to ruin his clothes with his freakish blood. They were so graciously bestowed to him by the family, and he knew how difficult it must have been for them to give any of their possessions away to someone as awful and undeserving as him. So, he treasured them- guilty appreciation forced him to.

The man looked hunrgily at the boy, sizing up his every feature. He was a beautiful mess in the mans mind. The boy was covered, head to toe, in pain. Bruises of all sizes, but generally large, covered his body-the different colors running into each other wonderfully. The boy had all sorts of burns, old ones and new, and he was covered with scabs. Just every square inch of this child, had been hurt in some way- and the man took great pleasure in knowing that he was the one to have caused it. It made him feel powerful.

He really had so little power.

Although he boasted frequently about how lucrative and important his job was making drills, he knew that he could have had so much better. Well, he at least at some point had dreamed of better. He had dreamed of being a high powered exectutive somewhere, of having freshly plucked college interns rushing to get him coffee, of having lowly secretaries and underlings that he could harass and or fire at the snap of a finger. But the man, Vernon Dursley, did not have this. Instead, he had Harry. And now his favorite outlet was going to pay for all the failures and frusterations in the mans sorry life.

"Today, It will be a bad one. A long one. I think you know you deserve it though, don't you boy?" He always went back to personifying the boy when he was about to punish him. For some reason, it made him feel closer to his own idealizations of power-letting his victim think he had ever really had a chance of getting out of this situation. "Yes, I think I will start with... well we will start with a bath. Need to get you all clean of course. Then a good thrashing, decide the extent of that further when we come to it, yes? Then some special punishment... then perhaps another bath boy? And then you can spend a few hours in penance position... and then a night in the box? But of course, this is all flexible, and depends on how you behave through it. We have a deal boy?"

The boy nodded, gaze never leaving the floor.

"Alright, well you can spend the time it takes me to run your bath in penance position. You know that you deserve this, don't you boy?"

Again the boy nodded.

The man then spit on him, the boys signal that he could move on to his task, and then walked to prepare his 'project'.

The boy meanwhile, walked to the corner of the room where there was a small area of the floor covered with small spikes. And he went, and he put his heavily scarred knees down, and he kneeled over. And he prayed.


	3. Chapter 3

I just couldn't let myself get any more graphic than that. Apologies? Not sure what to say there.

Still no Potter for me.

Kneeling wasn't a big deal. Really, all of his life he had spent kneeling. And the rest. The rest wasn't really a big deal either.

So what if he was hurt, so what if he couldn't even stand the thought of himself- of his vile skin defiling the world around him. So what. He deserved what he got. Really, the only reason that he didn't get even more punishment was because 'the family' could not be bothered, should not have to be bothered, with dealing with the likes of him. He was just a waste, a waste of air, a waste of time, and he knew it. It is why he couldn't help but be the slightest bit grateful whenever his master acknowledged him. Even, no, especially, during the special punishments. He hated them, but at the same time... he appreciated that his uncle took the time out of his busy life to spend with someone so sickening. It was a comfort in a way, and it made him hate it even more.

The punishment progressed. He apologized at the end of it. And he prepared to spend the night, or the next several nights, nursing his wounds alone. He had his own place for this, but specifically for times like this- for times when he had been bad. His uncle didn't even have to tell him. As soon as his uncle had started retreating back up the steps, Harry went into his box. It was another corner of the room, just a little cabinet, big enough even for him to sit if he so chose, and really not that much different from his cupboard. Except, it was so cold. Except, that the basement he was in was full of bugs. Except, that he knew that when he went in there he would have to shut the door all the way- and no light would be there to help him. Nothing would be there to help him. He would be all alone, in that box, for days. With no food, no water, naked, with no way to fight off any threat that might come.

But he went anyways. He had to, there was no other choice really. If he wanted to be good he had to do what he was told. And he wanted to be good, it was bad how much he wanted to finally just be good. He didn't really know what being 'good' would get him, but he knew that it was a good thing to want. His master wanted it for him, and so he tried. His master had been so pleased the first time the boy had put himself away in his box. Whenever the boy tried to be good by punishing away the badness, well sometimes anyways, sometimes he would be graced with a warm smile, or even a pat on the head! The more he hurt himself, the more he tried to show his master that he knew what he needed to do, the better the boy felt.

So he went as quickly as he could to the box. His bleach soaked skin and beaten body protested, but he just ignored it, it was best that way.

He crawled into his box, and took out the nail file that he had been given as a present for his good behavior, and he scratched. It wasn't as good as a knife. It didn't cut, it didn't make him disappear. It just helped him fade a bit.

He was good.


End file.
